by Sylvia True
“I think that would be counterproductive. I don’t want her to feel as if she is being spied on.”
“Yet in essence that is what you would be doing.”
Her face soured. “I am trying to help my daughter. I don’t see anything wrong with that.” She gripped the arms of the chair.
“I am not faulting your intentions. I am only saying I might not be the right person.”
“You would be well paid.”
“I would never take money for something like this.”
“You would be a regular guest at our home. Your friend, Rudin, comes sometimes, as does the mayor of Frankfurt.”
Arnold was not interested in politics. “I’m sorry,” he said, getting ready to stand. The thought of meeting Rudin was tempting, but his ethics must come before anything else.
Frau Blumenthal touched his arm. “Just come to dinner next week. Don’t make a decision now. At least meet her.”
Under the hard exterior, he saw the desperation in her eyes and remembered his mother with a similar expression when she learned her husband had congenital heart disease. She had begged Arnold to find a cure, which naturally was impossible. Arnold looked at Frau Blumenthal and gathered she had become a master at hiding her anguish.
“Very well,” he told her, finding it simply too difficult to say no.
When she smiled for the first time, he noted that she was an attractive woman.
“I will send my chauffer over with a date and a time.”
He bowed his head. Frau Blumenthal stood abruptly, extending an arm, now agreeable to a handshake.
How different she seemed from Rigmor, a woman who moved like a gentle breeze and seemed content to remain in the shadows.
* * *
The party was over, and Inga was anxious to find out how things had gone with Arnold. She found Frieda in the drawing room, taking her two glasses of whiskey.
If Inga was perfectly honest with herself, she would have appreciated a sliver of gratitude, some kind of recognition that her plan to enlist Arnold had potential. But Frieda showed no signs of softness, no smile, nothing that might intimate that she was pleased in any way with her daughter.
“How did it go with Arnold?” Inga sat straight, formally. If her mother was going to be aloof, then Inga would play along.
“He has a weak chin.”
Inga laughed, although she knew Frieda did not mean to be funny. “I thought him quite good-looking. But if the dimensions of his chin are what interest you, perhaps we should start a different sort of search.”
“He was not as agreeable as you indicated he might be.”
“I had never met him.”
“Since you enjoy going to the library so much, perhaps you could have done a bit more research.” Frieda’s jaw tightened.
“I found out what I could,” Inga said. “But I do wonder if it would have made a difference if I had explained the situation to him.” She wanted to keep her tone light, as if she was doing nothing more than being curious.
“Are you suggesting that I am incompetent? You may view me as your old mother, but I do know how to manage people.” Frieda finished her whiskey.
“Sometimes it isn’t about managing. Sometimes it simply takes a bit more finesse.” Inga glanced at Rigmor’s portrait.
Frieda stared at her daughter. “You talk about finesse, about discretion and delicacy? There have been rumors. A number of them. You are seeing that little man, Frederick Silbermann. I would suggest a bit more tact.” Her face reddened.
Inga remained still. “He is a friend. Nothing more.”
“You go to nightclubs with him,” Frieda said. “He has been seen with a hand on your backside.”
“You have spies in nightclubs?” Inga pretended she thought the topic entertaining, although that was far from the truth. She had been strict with Fred, telling him not to touch her in public. But sometimes it was impossible, not to reach out and brush a hand against the person you were so in love with.
“You have married a good man,” Frieda said. “Why not be content with him?”
“I have no intention of ending my marriage.” She crossed her legs. Divorce was not something she or Fred wanted. He was also married, and they both agreed that upsetting their family order was not wise. “What I do in my spare time is my business. Now please tell me what Arnold had to say.”
“Your husband is a good-looking man. He is well educated. I have never heard him raise his voice. He does not seem interested in other women. So why?”
Inga would never talk about the root problems in her marriage with her mother, and she understood that her mother’s harshness was born of fear. Fear that Inga’s husband might leave Inga for another woman, fear of loss, fear of gossip—of shame.
“Please tell me about Arnold,” Inga said.
“I simply don’t understand,” Frieda persisted. “Fred is not attractive. He is married with children. It is selfish not to see how you might be hurting his wife.”
Of course that would be Frieda’s perspective. The poor wife. “I am here to talk about Arnold.”
“He is not eager to do our bidding,” Frieda began. “And not interested in money.”
“I told you he would not take money.”
Frieda stood. “He will come to dinner again. We shall see. In the meantime, I don’t think it’s wise that you sneak into Rigmor’s room in the evening. She needs her rest.”
“She enjoys my company.”
“You have a husband to keep.” Frieda walked to the door, stopped and turned.
With her hair wrapped around her head, her dark clothing, and her lack of willingness to even wear lipstick, she made her position clear. She did not want to draw people close to her. She could not withstand the hurt that might follow.
“More attention to your own affairs is in order,” Frieda said.
Left alone, Inga slumped, relieved to be out of Frieda’s line of fire. All she wanted from her mother, all she had ever wanted, was respect. When Inga was four, her nanny had helped her to embroider a handkerchief with small blue flowers. Frieda had patted Inga’s head and said, “Good work, my girl.” Inga still had that handkerchief.
Frieda’s first misfortune was discovering her husband’s indiscretions. She might have eventually moved on from that, but then Rigmor became ill, and Frieda, a much more sensitive soul than she let on, kept people at bay. Except Inga, who took the brunt of her mother’s anger, and who understood that Frieda needed to lash out at someone who was completely loyal and also had the strength to remain standing.
Inga thought back to when Rigmor was born, how all of the attention naturally went to her. She was a captivating baby. Everyone felt that. Most of all Inga.
She remembered the very first day she saw Rigmor. It was the nursemaid who introduced them, handing Inga the baby wrapped in a yellow blanket trimmed with ivory silk. Rigmor’s mouth made sweet sucking motions as she glanced upward. In that moment, Inga felt transformed, as if some sort of light warmed her heart. Perhaps it was merely what all older sisters felt, or perhaps it was because Rigmor was truly extraordinary. Either way, Inga spent as much time as she was allowed with her baby sister. When Rigmor first toddled in her white shoes, Inga was there to clap and cheer. It was Inga who taught Rigmor how to read, how to make daisy chains, and which trees in the garden were best to hide behind. Inga held Rigmor’s hand when she was shy, told her not be afraid of adults or horses, and taught her that sometimes splashing paint on a canvas, making a mess, and rolling down hills were just as important as good manners.
* * *
When Arnold came for the second, more intimate dinner party, he sat next to Rigmor, and they spoke about painters and musicians. Conversation flowed smoothly, and by the end of the night, after they had talked about Agatha Christie’s latest murder mystery, they were laughing and devising plots of their own. Had he known nothing about Rigmor from Frau Blumenthal, Arnold would have thought her perfectly normal. The few notations he made were th
at she did have a tendency to lower her head quite often, and her cheeks turned pink readily. But she was very intelligent, curious, well-read, and engaging. He doubted she needed much help at all, and he wondered if her mother’s need for her to be looked after came from a need to control. After all, Frau Blumenthal was not married. Arnold assumed she was a war widow, and from his experience widows often clung to their youngest child.
At the end of the evening, Frau Blumenthal cornered Arnold.
“It seems to have gone well,” she said.
He glanced at Rigmor who was talking to Inga. “I enjoyed myself. Thank you for having me.”
Rigmor approached to say good night.
“Tea next Thursday?” Frau Blumenthal asked Arnold, as her younger daughter slipped quietly behind her.
“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation.
The following day, as Arnold listened to a patient carry on about her dog that died recently, and how she wished it was she who had died instead, his thoughts kept wandering to Rigmor.
When Thursday arrived, Arnold was surprised to discover that at this event, he and Rigmor were the only two participants. They sat together in the smaller, lighter drawing room.
“Your mother and sister couldn’t join us?” he asked.
“My mother has business with the bank, and Inga, well, she is always here, there and everywhere.” As Rigmor smiled, she held a hand in front of her mouth.
“May I be so bold as to ask what happened to your father?”
Color sprang to her face. “My mother and father are divorced.”
He nodded, wanting to know more, but not wanting to cause embarrassment. “I see.” He kept his posture open, showing a willingness to listen without judgment.
“He had an affair, and my mother couldn’t tolerate it.”
“That must have been difficult.” He bit into the moist lemon cake.
“I don’t recall much. I was eight at the time, and it seemed that everyone around me spoke in whispers. Except Inga. She was twelve, and said my mother had no right to tell my father to move out.”
“Do you see him often?”
“Never. My mother said that if he remarried, she would not allow him to see us.” She brushed a hand along her skirt. “She even said it was illegal. I remember him sitting stiffly in the drawing room in his military uniform with the thick cuffs, an iron cross pinned to his lapel, and large silver buttons on the cape. I wanted to touch those buttons.” She smiled. “He had a long mustache that twisted at the ends. I can’t really remember what he was like, but I remember those buttons.”
Arnold pried gently. He learned that Rigmor was a family name, that her governess had been strict, something Rigmor adapted to, being submissive by nature. Inga, on the other hand, was constantly scolded. He learned that Inga, although the more boisterous sister, was fiercely protective of Rigmor.
Near the end of the afternoon, he asked her if there was one thing she could change in her life what would it be.
“I have seen a number of psychiatrists and no one has ever asked me that question.”
“I am not here as your psychiatrist,” he reminded her.
“No, of course not.” She gave a half smile.
“Would you change anything?” he asked.
“I would like to go to bed at night and know that I will be able to sleep.”
He had not expected that answer. He thought maybe she would want to study at the University, or leave home, or travel, but to wish for sleep? She had no discoloring under her eyes, or any other signs of sleep deprivation. Aside from the fact that she was perhaps a bit too thin, she looked in the prime of health.
“Do you always have trouble falling asleep?” he asked.
“And what would you wish for?” she replied.
He chuckled. She was very good at deflecting. “Many things, I suppose.”
She poked his arm. “This isn’t a fair game if you don’t tell me.” Her gray eyes reminded him of light sparkling off the ocean.
“No, that wouldn’t be fair.” He had never told anyone of his real dreams. “I know it’s very unlikely, and it would take an enormous amount of work, but I would like to make a name for myself one day. Perhaps even write a book.”
Her eyes shone as she clapped. “Of course you will do it.”
Over the next two weeks, he saw her four times. Twice they walked through the Palmengarten, and twice he visited her for tea. She wore clean cut dresses with conservative necklines. Everything about her—the way she walked, spoke, and carried her handbag—had a modest, unpretentious air.
She was interested in Darwin, animals (especially insects), mystery novels, the piano, and art. She was not fond of poetry, politics, or fashion. She hated anything loud, such as night clubs, and felt anxious walking down a crowded street. She loved to talk about Inga, who had an extraordinarily busy social schedule and seemed to know everyone on the planet. Inga’s descriptions of people, which often included comparing them to some sort of animal, (her mother was naturally a mule) made Rigmor laugh.
But for every piece of information she gave, she extracted something from him. A description of his childhood farm, the nature of his mother, and the reason he chose psychiatry. He paused and smiled when she asked him this, even though on the inside, he was hardly feeling lighthearted. He told Rigmor he had gone into the field because he was interested in the dynamics of the human mind. In part that was true. But the larger part, the part he didn’t say, was that he had hoped to find a way to cure his sexual perversions, perversions that the Nazis found particularly abhorrent. Not that he agreed with their beliefs, but one could hardly escape their views of late.
Chapter Five
Reunions
Belmont, Massachusetts 1984
Inga booked a ticket and packed her suitcase. If there was one thing she had learned from traveling the globe with Fred, it was how to avoid bringing unnecessary items. She lifted her bag, pleased that it was quite light. She would not be one of those elderly people who needed assistance with luggage.
Once in Boston, she took a taxi to the Holiday Inn. The lobby smelled of cleaning fluid. The flowers were silk imitations, and the browns and oranges of the walls were drab. But it was the closest hotel to the hospital, and as long as the mattress was firm, which they had promised would be the case, all would be satisfactory.
Under the constant distractions of wall colors and smells, Inga felt a dull and permanent ache. There was the missing of Fred, the worry about Lisbet, the anxiety concerning Sabine. But she could only do what she could do. And carry on, she must.
The view from her third-floor room, of a parking lot, was tolerable, but the lack of space was unbearable. There were two beds covered with spreads that felt synthetic and itchy, and a particle-board armoire that had a television inside of it.
Inga marched down the hallway and took the elevator back to the lobby.
“I’m afraid I need a different room,” she told the man behind the desk, who appeared to be half asleep.
He studied his ledger for what seemed a long time. “What’s the problem?”
“There is no space to move.” She placed a hand on the counter. “Perhaps you have a larger room.”
“That’s our standard size.”
“I noticed a door to the adjoining room. Would it be possible for me to have both rooms?”
He glanced at his ledger again. “If you want, but you have to pay for it.”
“Of course. But I will need someone to help me rearrange the furniture.” She opened her handbag, took out an envelope of cash, and handed him two twenty dollar bills. “If you could send up a couple of young men to help, I would greatly appreciate it.”
His eyes became alert. “Yes, Ma’am. We’ll move the TV to the storage room. We can get you extra blankets or pillows, if you’d like.”
Three men came to help, and a fourth, the manager, supervised. Inga explained that she was from Switzerland, and that she was impressed with how Americans were alw
ays so willing to help. The men moved out one bed and the television from the room she would sleep in. In the adjoining room, they took out another bed, and were able to make some space so that it resembled, to a small degree, a sitting room. Inga gave them all handsome tips and thanked the manager profusely.
In her sitting room, she placed the photograph of Fred on the desk. The picture, taken from behind, showed him in his waders standing in a stream on a sunny day. But what gave the photo its sublime intimacy was the moment her memory filled in: his blissful expression when he turned to her just after she set her camera aside.
* * *
The following morning, Inga woke early and did her exercises—toe-touches, neck-stretches, and half-sit-ups. She dressed in a straight-lined navy skirt, her white starched blouse and a light-blue cardigan. She applied a minimal amount of blush and lipstick, then went downstairs for a breakfast of weak coffee and a stale roll.
A man and a woman, neither of whom wore wedding rings, sat a few tables away. The woman laughed as she brushed a crumb from the man’s face. Inga remembered being in Paris with Fred, eating croissants in bed under the white eiderdown that smelled freshly laundered. She had watched him read the paper that morning, had wanted to paint a portrait of him, wanted to capture his look of concern—the deep intelligence in his brow. He had understood sooner than most the hideousness of the Nazis.
An hour later, she peered out the window of her taxi at the old stone walls and brick buildings that made up McLean. She imagined this was once the estate of a very wealthy family.
After climbing to the second floor of North Belknap, she pressed the red button, and suddenly felt dizzy. She clutched the strap of her handbag and thought that maybe Arnold had been right, perhaps this would be more difficult than she had imagined.
The door opened, and in front of Inga stood a young man with disheveled brown hair and dull eyes. He wore a tatty red sweater. She assumed he was a patient, perhaps feebleminded, who had earned his way to a quasi-butler status. It pleased her that he was given a task, for it demonstrated that those in charge cared that the patients felt a sense of purpose. Inga told him she was here to see Sabine Connolly, her granddaughter. He gestured for her to wait inside, where the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and dirty laundry. The lighting was poor, but on a positive note, there was no wailing or screaming and a normal-looking man with a dark beard sat a few meters away strumming a guitar. Inga took a deep breath and continued to focus on her surroundings rather than her fears.